


Star to Every Wandering Bark

by Rosie_Rues



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Friends to Lovers, M/M, demi!Otabek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-30
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-11-07 00:12:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11047257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rosie_Rues/pseuds/Rosie_Rues
Summary: Six years, in which everything goes wrong and then everything goes right. Otabek almost floats away, but Yuri is like gravity.I wanted to explore a different dynamic for these two. Otabek pov.





	1. Chapter 1

_Oh no! it is an ever-fixed mark_

_That looks on tempests and remains unshaken;_

_It is the star to every wandering bark,_

_ Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken._

 

Astana. Almaty. St Petersburg. Detroit. Montreal.

For years, it feels as if his feet barely touch the ground.

Sochi, Saitoma, Kelowna, Moscow, Fukuoka, Seoul, Milwaukee, Nagano, Barcelona.

These days, Otabek isn’t sure the ground even exists. Everything that is not the grace and glory of the ice is simply the clouds that pile up in fading layers beneath every plane window.

He tries to find ways things that will anchor him to the ground—the roar of a bike below him, music—always music, singing him through journeys that blur together into an endless flow of seats designed for taller men and crackling announcements in his third and fourth languages and stilted conversations with over-friendly seatmates far above foreign oceans. Music leads him to dark clubs with crowded dancefloors, to beats that drum in his bones with the same satisfaction as the slice of his blades over ice, to his own hands dancing as he creates new rhythms out of familiar songs, to his body turning, turning, turning on the ice, proclaiming that there is no one way to live in the heart of a song.

But nothing quite feels real. Even the music just carries him further away from anything solid enough to stand on.

And then there is Yuri.

At ten, Yuri Plisetsky had the eyes of a soldier; he too understands sacrifice. At fifteen, pursued by a crowd, he is as alone as Otabek feels.

Yuri has left the grandfather he loves to train in another city. Otabek has a little sister he’s watched grow up through Skype calls and Facebook pictures—one he doesn’t quite know how to talk to now he’s back in Kazakhstan. Yuri off the ice is awkward and surly, always braced for a fight. On the ice, he is like a lightning storm, beautiful and unstoppable. Otabek stays quiet off the ice, but lives on it, saves all his strength and determination for those few vital minutes.

They fit together so well it frightens him a little.

No, that’s a lie. It’s not fear that makes his heart beat faster and his jumps soar higher. Fear and exhilaration are simply different sides of the same coin, and Yuri makes him do more, dare more, want more.

People tend to tell Otabek how proud they are of him—his family, his coaches, his fellow countrymen, on the streets of Almaty and when passed in the streets of countless foreign cities. He’s learned over the years to bite back his response to that—to keep the faintest hint of it from his eyes—but he knows he doesn’t deserve it. Not yet. He hasn’t done enough—won enough—to have earned their pride.

But Yuri asks him for more.

Within a few days of Yuri first taking his hand, Otabek has given him everything—from the music he loves to the clothes on his back. He has burned the aloof reputation he has so carefully cultivated into ashes.

He’s never felt so alive.

Yuri blazes into his life like a meteor in flight, threatening to destroy everything in his path and instead filling the world with light. Otabek rushes after him, dazzled but willing, and leaves everyone else scrambling to catch up.

Otabek doesn’t even think twice about any of it until he’s home again and sits down by his practice rink to do his weekly survey of his social media accounts—something that usually takes no more than fifteen minutes.

This week is different, and not in a good way. He only gets halfway through the comments before he starts to feel sick.

“What’s wrong?” his sister asks. With him, she doesn’t bother to enunciate each syllable clearly. She trusts him to understand, and he does, even with his brain spinning. They’ve always been the two in the family who understood each other best without even having to speak and he’s getting back to that slowly.

“Beka.”

He knows better than to help, but he slides along a seat so she can lower herself onto the end of the row, and lean against him, her hair tickling the underside of his chin as she squints at the screen he’s still holding.

“Translate.”

Of course, it’s mostly in English, with some Russian thrown in and he’s deeply thankful Anor doesn’t understand much of either. She doesn’t deserve to see this poison. He switches his phone off and then yelps as she reaches out, grasps the end of one walking stick, and hits him with it.

“Anora!”

“Talk to me, stupid.”

She’s two weeks younger than Yuri, but Anor will never fly across the ice—never sets foot on it at all unless Otabek supports her, and she’s tall enough now that even that is harder than it was when he left, when she was still a tiny scrap of determination. Sometimes, in the quiet bleakness of jet-lagged nights, he thinks that he must have stolen not just his own but also her share of grace before she had a chance to claim it.

She got all the strength, though.

“Did you see Yuri skate?” he asks her.

She snorts. “He asks, as if he hadn’t shown it to me a thousand times. Which one—the one where he pretends to be angelic, the one where he skates like he wants to disembowel the piano, or the stripshow on ice?”

“Er.”

She sighs again. “Yes, idiot brother of mine, I have seen that one. More than once.”

She’s the same age as Yuri, though Otabek can’t decide if her years count in the same way. Her life has not been easy, but she has never lacked for love. He isn’t sure the same can be said of Yuri. “You didn’t think I… it wasn’t… was it wrong? Dirty wrong?”

She lifts her head enough to bang it against his shoulder in rebuke. “Is that what they’re saying?”

“Some of them. A lot of them.”

She purses her lips, considering. At last, she says, “No, but I know you.”

“If you didn’t know me?”

“But I do.”

It doesn’t help. Then she says, her voice a little wistful, “Beka, you’re allowed to have a boyfriend if you want one.”

“I don’t—I never thought of it like that.”

“Of course you didn’t.” She turns herself around and meets his gaze. This close, sitting perfectly still, it’s like looking at an old picture of himself—her eyes are the same as his, her face a barely softer echo of his own, her hair longer, but springing out from her parting with the same slightly wayward curl. It’s only when they move that the resemblance blurs.

Then she reaches up and pokes him in the forehead, holding her finger firmly between his brows. He crosses his eyes trying to see it, and she giggles. He smiles at her, because he’ll always smile for Anor, even when everyone else bewilders him.

“You live in here too much,” she tells him. “It’s all abstract to you, yes?”

“Not when I skate.”

She laughs outright. “Beka, you even skate in metaphors.”

He shrugs.

“But your Yuri—he skates from the gut, doesn’t he?”

“I think so.”

“You know so,” she corrects and drops her hand, chewing her lip. “From the gut, and all he wanted was for the world to see him as he feels inside.”

Her voice is so fierce it hurts.

“Anora.”

“Shut up, you. He does things because he feels them and you do things because the thought of them feels right, and it’s not the same at all. You have to be ready.”

“For what?”

“For people who don’t want to be metaphors,” she says.

He considers that, still confused. “You’re not a metaphor.”

“I know that,” she says, huffing annoyance. “But, Beka—”

“What?”

“Sometimes you forget it. And you forget that I can’t be the only one that’s real.”

He spends weeks pondering that—weeks of preparing for the Four Continents, of practising of his quads, of liking pictures of Yuri’s extended post-exhibition temper tantrum through other people’s feeds (he’s not sure quite how Yuri’s coaches have enforced a social media ban, but they seem to have managed it). He is befriended from afar by what feels like the entire Russian skating team, has to mute JJ LeRoy after a few too many snide comments (a shame, because they have trained together, and he’s not so bad away from fellow competitors), and appears to have been invited to the Nikiforov-Katsuki wedding for reasons he doesn’t quite understand.

“Strangely,” Anor says over dinner, “people like you.”

Otabek practises his blank and confused face on her until she laughs herself into hiccups. Otabek threatens to make her do the washing up in revenge until she points out, not unfairly, that she cooked.

He practises doggedly, but that other world seems very far away. For once, he falls into a comfortable routine—he skates, looks after his sister, plays music in the evening. The steel blades and illusory starlight of competitions retreat, although he is counting down the days until the Four Continents, crossing them off neatly on the calendar that hangs beside his kitchen window.

Then Yuri gets his phone back, posts twenty pictures of himself landing quads whilst wearing purple tiger print leggings and an expression of snarling rage, and blows Otabek’s phone up with messages and demands.

Otabek waits until lunchtime, and simply texts back, Hi.

His phone rings within moments. He picks it up and Yuri demands, quick and furious, “Where were you?”

“Practising. Before that, driving my sister to school.”

“Huh.” Yuri barely pauses for breath before asking, “You have a sister?”

“Yes. Two, actually, but Ruhshana is grown up and married. Only Anor is younger than me.”

That actually quietens Yuri, as if he’s thinking hard. Then he says, as if he’s been challenged, “I have a sister too.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, a half-sister. I don’t know her.” His tone is uncompromising, and Otabek’s heart aches for him.

He says, very carefully, “That’s a shame. Anor lives with me.”

“In Almaty?” He’s caught Yuri’s interest. “Not at home?”

“Her school is here and now so am I, so she no longer needs to board.” There aren’t many schools that will take disabled students and very few of those that do are willing to look beyond Anor’s slow speech and stiff legs to see the sharpness of her mind. Otabek doesn’t enjoy chasing sponsorships, but he’ll do it to pay her fees. He doesn’t tell Yuri this.

“How old is she?”

“Fifteen.”

Yuri huffs in his ear. “Is that why you rescued me? Because I’m the same age as your sister?” He sounds deeply offended by the notion.

“I rescued you because you needed rescuing. And because I like you.”

“Hah,” Yuri says, as if he’s ticking off another victory. “And _I_ don’t have to go to school.”

“You have tutors, though.” Otabek tries to work out the time difference. “Soon, perhaps?”

“Science, but they have to find me first.”

Otabek bites back a smile and relaxes. He’s missed Yuri—missed the way he brings everything else in the world into focus. On the other hand, he’s still an older brother and he’s not afraid to make trouble. He says, lying through his teeth, “Anor is very good at science.”

He can almost feel Yuri’s glower through the phone. Then Yuri demands, “Can your sister skate?”

“No.”

“Not at all?” Yuri sounds incredulous.

“She can’t walk,” Otabek says, surprising himself. He has his life in Almaty and his life on the ice and he does not let the two collide. Despite that, he keeps talking, “Not much, anyway. She can get to the door and down to the car, with her sticks, but not much further. She used to go further, when we were little, but now she is older it hurts more. She will need a wheelchair, in the end.” He stops, startled at himself.

Yuri is completely quiet, breathing in his ear. Otabek wishes he could see his face.

He supposes that this is part of Yuri never having had a friend before. He doesn’t know how to receive confidences.

To rescue him, Otabek says, “I don’t talk about my family much. They don’t deserve the media turning them into—” He stops, not sure of how to explain.

“I get it,” Yuri mumbles, and there’s something odd in his voice, something a little fragile. Otabek wonders how many people have ever trusted him before. Then, before he can do something stupid like ask, Yuri says, in a completely different tone, “Oh, crap, they found me.”

“Enjoy your lessons, Yura,” Otabek says and then adds, “I’m going to practise my quad loops, since I have finished my education.”

Yuri lets out a shrill indignant sound but then adds gruffly, right before he hangs up, “Say hi to your sister for me.”

Otabek skates well that afternoon, some of the sharpness that comes with competition adding edges to every move. His coach nods approvingly and says, “What inspired you?”

He shrugs, a little embarrassed, but for once doesn’t argue when his coach suggests putting up a practice picture on Instagram.

Yuri is the first to like it.

 

Yuri barely snatches gold from Viktor at the Europeans, much to his fury.

Otabek wins silver in the Four Continents, poses with Yuuri Katsuki and JJ on the podium, and gets dragged out to drink with Katsuki and his fiance afterwards. This would be slightly less weird if he hadn’t also ended up all over Viktor’s Instagram and if Yuri hadn’t called at midnight to threaten to disown him.

Back in Almaty, he starts training for Worlds with a new fire in his heart. It’s going to be one hell of a contest this year.

Yuri contacts him at least once a day, his scowling face appearing on Otabek’s laptop screen by dinnertime without fail. Otabek starts propping him on a pile of old textbooks on the kitchen table and chatting to him as he and Anor do their evening chores. Yuri’s hesitant to talk to her at first, tracking her movements around the room with narrowed eyes as he rants at Otabek about Viktor and Katsuki and Viktor and Yakov and Mila and Viktor. Then Anora starts greeting him with a wave every time his face appears on screen.

Yuri mumbles a greeting back every time, his shoulders hunching. If Otabek were to guess, he’d say that scowl suggested fear, but he still worries, until the day Yuri says painstakingly, “ _Qayrli kesh, Anor._ ” Then he drops back into Russian to demand, “What’s Kazakh for ‘what stupid things has your brother done today?’”

“I’m not going to tell you that,” Otabek protests, but translates for Anor anyway. She cackles with laughter and says, “Tell him to friend me on Instagram and I’ll send pictures.”

“I’m not translating that either.”

But Yuri’s perked up at the word ‘Instagram’. “Does she follow me? Tell her to follow me!”

Anor can’t speak Russian and can only write a few words of it. Yuri knows no Kazakh. Otabek tries not to get involved, but they manage without him, though a dizzying mixture of mime, pictographs and scribbled keywords.

This is unfortunate, because Anor’s taxi from school drops her off at the rink every evening and she has a near inexhaustible supply of videos of Otabek falling over.

“He was shy,” Anor tells him in the car the next day. She fixes her gaze on him. “Are you his _only_ friend?”

“He has rinkmates.”

“Oh, dear,” she says, but won’t be drawn on why.

 

Then the Worlds come round and Yuri greets him by tackling him with a hug that almost throttles him and then letting go to drag Otabek out to drink with the astonishing rolling disaster that is the extended Russian skating team (plus fiances, friends, friends of fiances, and angry jealous brothers of friends). It’s loud and bewildering and more fun than Otabek’s ever had at a competition and he stops thinking about flying away and just lives (and skates, of course).

He doesn’t make it onto the podium, much to his frustration, but Yuri does. Otabek takes other things home, though—the defiant note in Yuri’s voice cheering him on, the breathtaking brilliance of the other performances—he will never understand how Viktor Nikiforov can just keep getting better—the chorus of laughing goodbyes he gets when his flight is the first one called at the airport.

He doesn’t need to cling to his music so much on the flight home this time. His mind is too full of other things—of people and movements and triumph and frustration and Yuri there in the middle of them all.

When he shows Anor all the photos on his phone, she looks up, her face troubled, and says, even more carefully than usual, “You can tell me. If he is your boyfriend, I mean.”

“It’s not like that,” Otabek says, startled. “He’s my friend. That’s more important.” He’s never had time to bother with romance, and no one has ever distracted him from the path he is on. That sort of thing is for other people, with other needs, not for him.

Anor doesn’t seem happy with that answer. “Does he know that too?”

Otabek is puzzled. “Of course. Only the skating matters. He’s like me.”

“I don’t think he is,” Anor murmurs, but Otabek doesn’t want to talk about this anymore.

 

It turns into a very good year. He spends three weeks of the summer training in St Petersburg, and gets to bear witness to the way Yuri expresses his loathing of Viktor and his fiance by sitting on their sofa and grumbling about their choice of film, eating their food, and failing to kick them over. He’s pretty sure Viktor is choosing the films just to make Yuri shriek and snarl, and he knows the other Yuuri wasn’t that quick to dodge a few months ago. It reminds him of being at home with Anor, though he’s wise enough not to tell Yuri that.

Yuri takes him for granted, so blithely and smugly that it’s almost a compliment. He drags Otabek wherever he wants to go, his hands warm and tight on Otabek’s wrist. He climbs him without warning, demands Otabek feed and entertain him, and then curls up against his side in the evenings.

He is essentially a cat, and Otabek has to curl his fingers up to stop himself from stroking Yuri’s belly to see if he’ll purr (he hasn’t quite forgotten those horrifying comments yet—the things they’d called him just for sharing the ice with Yuri’s rebellion).

All the same, heaped up on Viktor’s sofa watching _The Wizard of Oz_ (he’s only ninety percent sure Viktor is trolling them with this—he knows a few too many of the lyrics for Otabek to be certain), he listens to Dorothy proclaim, “There’s no place like home,” and smiles. For the first time in years, he thinks he knows what home feels like. It’s the scent of Anor’s cooking in the evening, Yuri’s elbow poking him in the side, and the familiar scrape of skates against the ice.

“What are you grinning for?” Yuri demands. “This film is stupid.”

“You liked the flying monkeys,” Otabek points out.

“I did not.”

But he spends the walk home bumping elbows with Otabek and speculating whether Lilia would melt if he poured soapy water over her.

“Please wait until I’ve gone before you try,” Otabek says, and Yuri cackles gleefully and bumps shoulders with him.

He follows Otabek home. Otabek takes two days to show him Almaty—his rink and the little flat he shares with Anor in termtime, before bundling him north to Astana. They spend a few days with his parents, and Otabek drags Yuri all over the city, enjoying the way he gawps at the gleaming towers and spires.

But it’s summer and Astana is unbearable, so they all head out again, to Yuri’s vocal bewilderment. There’s a place in the mountains that the whole extended family claims every summer, responsible adults ducking in and out as their jobs require whilst all the kids run wild. Otabek’s brothers and sisters are all there—the two oldest with their own kids—as well as various aunts and uncles and cousins and friends escaping the cities. It’s loud and mad and happy, and Yuri spends the first day freaking out and hiding behind Otabek.

By the second day, half the littlest cousins have taken a liking to him and he spends the next week hurtling up and down the mountainside with a mob on his heels, all of them, including Yuri, shrieking in uninhibited glee. Otabek tries to rescue him from time to time, but he’s old news to the little ones and can’t tempt them away. It becomes rare to see Yuri without at least one small child attached to his leg. He calls them terrible names, teaches them to swear in Russian, and is exquisitely gentle with them all.

In the evenings, once his fans are asleep, he sticks to Otabek’s side. Anor has taken up cooking properly now, and she tests recipes on them, chattering with Yuri in a mixture of Russian and broken English and clumsy sign language which they seem to make up as they go. When she confesses that she would like to cook for a living, Otabek’s heart sinks as he tries to think of ways to make it a reality.

Yuri, who has never met a challenge he could not surpass, sets her up with a blog and a YouTube account and helps her work out how to start filming her recipes.

They both miss him horribly when he flies home, but all too soon the skating season is upon them.

It all goes very well indeed until the Grand Prix final.

And then, after Yuri has won and Otabek is still staggering in shock because he scraped half a point more than _Viktor Nikiforov_ , Yuri pushes him into a dark alcove outside the banquet and kisses him.

It’s awful.

Yuri’s mouth slides wetly against his, his tongue stabbing at Otabek’s mouth, and all Otabek can think of is the words that were thrown at him a year ago—sick, exploitative, pervert, pedophile.

He loves Yuri—loves every part of him and every way he has transformed Otabek’s life.

But he wasn’t ready for this—doesn’t know what to do with it.

So he closes his eyes over the burn of tears, because he knows Yuri, knows how this will go, and gently pushes him away. He manages, “No, Yura.”

“Why the fuck not?” Yuri demands, his shoulders going stiff under Otabek’s hands.

But Otabek can’t answer. There are too many regrets clogging his throat.

Yuri rears back, eyes narrowing and mouth twisting viciously. He snaps, the hurt so clear it slices into Otabek too, “Well, fuck you then!”

And he’s gone, hurtling down the corridor like a whirlwind.

Otabek doesn’t follow. He slides down the wall until he’s sitting on the floor and covers his face with his hands. He needs to fix this—needs to make it right.

But he doesn’t know how.

 

It’s five years before Yuri Plisetsky speaks to him again.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which it all just gets more complicated, and there is pining. Lots of pining.

__

Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks    


Within his bending sickle's compass come;    


Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,    


But bears it out even to the edge of doom.

 

It gets worse.

Otabek waits until he gets home and then tries, awkwardly and clumsily, to contact Yuri. Surely he’s had time to calm down now?

Yuri blocks him on every form of social media, including some Otabek has never actually used until now. So do Georgi, the Crispino twins, and a couple of other Russian skaters he barely knows. He eventually swallows back his discomfort and manages to get through to Mila.

_OMG!_ She messages back. _What did you do to my precious baby?!?!_

He doesn’t want to talk to her about this—doesn’t want to talk to anyone but Yuri. _Is he okay?_

_No one can get close enough to find out!_

That’s not good. _Ask him to call me. Please._

_I’ll try, but only if you promise to FIX THIS!_

_I promise,_ Otabek says though he’s not sure how. He isn’t sure if he should have found a way to explain better or to apologise. Maybe he should have kept kissing Yuri. Maybe the panic would have gone away. Maybe he would have liked it, after a while.

Yuri deserves better, and Otabek doesn’t know how to fix this when he can’t be better.

In the end, it doesn’t matter. Mila messages him back. _He says he’d rather blind himself with his own skates than ever see you again._

Oh. He starts to reply, stops, tries again, but has no words to answer with.

She sends, _I think you need to leave him alone._

And that’s that.

 

He skates badly for the next few weeks. He can’t seem to find his focus. Every jump gets thrown off balance by the memory of the hurt and embarrassment burning across Yuri’s face. Every spin falters over the fear that he will never get his friend back.

His coach says thoughtfully, “I never expected this from you. My mistake.”

“Expected what?” Otabek demands.

Aleks raises an eyebrow at him. “You’re not the first teenager I’ve coached, Altin. So, talk about it or get over it, but don’t bring it onto the rink. Don’t sabotage your chance at the Olympics over something you’ll have forgotten by then.”

Otabek is about to protest (he will never forget Yuri Plisetsky—who could?), but Aleks’ gaze is too knowing. He shrugs instead and says, “I’ll get over it.”

And he tries. He really tries, but everything seems a little bit wrong now. 

Yuri gets within half a point of a world record at the Europeans. Otabek and Anora watch it from their kitchen table, tablet propped up as it hasn’t been since Yuri last called. Outside, the night is full of fog, gathering in cold clouds that make the rest of the city seem very far away. They watch in silence as the familiar music of Yuri’s short program spills out of the speakers—tinny and jerky where the feed freezes. Otabek has seen this program before, when it was a thing of impossible ethereal grace. Now it has razor-sharp edges.

Anor looks at him when it’s done, but Otabek won’t meet her eyes. She leans on him as she leaves the room, her cheek warm against the top of his head, but says nothing.

Yuri’s free skate is worse. His coaches have relaxed just enough to allow a waltz, and now Otabek knows to look for it, he can see the barely veiled eroticism in every movement. Yuri skates it like he’s throwing down a gauntlet—look at me, he seems to say. See what I am, not what you want me to be.

Otabek can see him now, but all he can feel is a cold, aching regret, though he still doesn’t know what he could have done differently.

Almaty is four hours deeper into its night and it’s almost two before Yuri skates. Otabek sits there for another hour, rewatching it again and again. Eventually he leaves a comment on Yuri’s facebook page to congratulate him.

By the time he wakes up the next morning, bleary-eyed and miserable, his comment has been deleted.

What is he supposed to do now? What does Yuri want of him?

He knows the answer to that. Yuri wanted Otabek to kiss him back, wanted what Otabek had given freely until that moment—wanted  _everything_ .

Otabek has never kissed anyone. He’s never wanted to kiss anyone. He doesn’t even know how to want it.

He should probably have found a way to tell Yuri that sooner.

He gets another Olympic-themed lecture that day.

The Four Continents is strange too. People still say hello to him, but there’s no invitation to spend time with Viktor and Yuuri. He makes himself return to old habits, spend the contest by himself, and comes second. Yuuri spends the banquet shooting him worried glances. Otabek ignores him and lets Isabella monopolise him—he’s been friends with her since before she met JJ and she is quick to shake her head at her fiance when he tries to get Otabek to drink away his sorrows. JJ wanders off to annoy Viktor instead, and Otabek makes his escape as soon as he politely can. 

 

And then there are the Worlds.

They matter twice over—firstly, his placement here will determine whether he represents his country in next year’s Olympics. Secondly, he may get to speak to Yuri face-to-face.

But Yuri proves elusive. The only time Otabek gets near him is when they’re warming up and that’s not the time. Yuri glowers at him and turns his back, and Otabek can’t find the strength of voice to wish him luck. Instead, he closes his eyes, listens to his music, and pushes aside everything but the ice.

He skates better than he ever has before. 

The closest he gets to Yuri, however, is on the podium. His hopes of a quiet reconciliation are not helped by the fact he’s standing above Yuri. Some journalist catches the look of unrestrained loathing Yuri shoots him, and by the next day it’s gone viral. JJ is the first to tag them both in it, commenting _Better hope the wind doesn’t change and leave you like that, kitten! No one likes a sore loser!_ He’s also the one who keeps showing everyone at the banquet the picture, clapping Otabek sympathetically on the shoulder each time. “I thought only I got that treatment! Nice to know I’m no longer his worst enemy!”

Otabek does his best to slide away (never easy, even when Isabella starts shooting him apologetic looks), but he never gets near Yuri. He’s pretty sure most of the people putting themselves in his way are doing it for his own protection, but he still wishes they would all vanish.

And then the media, and their respective fans, get hold of it. By the end of the next Grand Prix series, the whole world seems to think he and Yuri are arch-rivals.

When asked about it in interviews, Otabek denies it.

Yuri does not.

 

Otabek wins silver at the Olympics with a new world record in the free skate.

Yuri grows six inches and starts dating.

Otabek gives up on social media. For about a week.

Yuri tells the world media his greatest ambition is to break Otabek’s record. Then he does it.

Otabek decides not to attend the Nikiforov-Katsuki wedding, although his invitation hasn’t been withdrawn.

Yuri never makes it through an international competition with a relationship intact.

Otabek lands a quad lutz in the 2018 Cup of China.

Yuri immediately starts hinting that he’s practising a quad axel.

The figure skating world loses its collective mind.

Anor threatens to bury Otabek’s phone and tablet in the back garden.

He tries very hard to forget about Yuri. He reconnects with old school friends, sees more of his family, contacts Isabella once a week and exchanges skating analysis with JJ when he gatecrashes their conversations. He remains adamant that there is no such thing as ‘Ota-style’ and he doesn’t need an accompanying hand gesture. JJ tries to get it started on Twitter anyway.

Yuri starts drawing his finger across his throat when all three of them show up at the same competitions. JJ thinks it’s hilarious. Otabek doesn’t.

Anor’s cooking videos become more and more successful. By the time she’s in her last year at school, she has more followers than Otabek does.

“Because I post publicly twice a week,” she points out, “and you post publicly twice a year.”

They’ve agreed not to announce their relationship to their respective followers. Anor wants to prove herself and Otabek doesn’t want to bring the increasingly bitter fanwars of the figure skating world to her comments. He never shows his face in her videos, though he is happy to hold up ingredients. At first he does an English voiceover for her, trusting few people will recognise his voice from the odd interviews he gives. She never refers to him as anything other than ‘my brother Beka.’

It becomes an in-joke among her followers, which is nice. He doesn’t mind that. Nobody’s choosing their online names based on how much they love or hate him. They just occasionally urge Anor to share a picture of ‘the mysterious Beka.’

“My brother is shy,” she says, again and again. 

It’s not true, but it’s a nice thing to hide behind. 

Then, in the year she (and Yuri) turn nineteen, everything changes again. First, Yakov Feltsman retires and Yuri moves to Japan.

And then Anor leaves too. She’s been picking up more and more English-speaking followers and eventually she shows him the offers she’s had from universities far, far from home.

Otabek’s signed three new sponsorship deals this year, one of them international. He can pay her fees almost anywhere, if she truly wants this.

“I do,” she says, and she’s so confident now his heart clenches. “I want to learn more.”

He can’t really argue. He left the country when he was thirteen, after all—for Detroit and then Montreal.

It’s a cooking school in Montreal she chooses in the end, to his relief. He still knows people there, and however much JJ irritates him at times, he trusts the Leroys to value family. They’ll be there if Anor needs help.

He goes with her when she moves. Her term starts two weeks after the wedding and he’s somehow been bullied into being not just the DJ at the reception but also Isabella’s best man. (”I didn’t think that was—” he said, but she laughed and informed him, “It will be at my wedding.”).

It turns out to be the biggest party he’s ever been to—the extended Leroy and Yang families are here, along with what seems like the entire figure skating world, half the people he and Isabella knew at high school, and bewildering numbers of hockey players who keep picking JJ up and throwing him around whenever the music speeds up. Viktor’s there with his husband, but so are the entire Russian skating team, from Mila and Georgi to Yakov Feltsman and Lilia Baronovskaya (Otabek has never seen Phichit Chulanont look so simultaneously terrified and elated as he does when he finds himself next to her in the crowd when a certain Swiss skater insists he put on ‘Gangnam Style’). 

And, despite the fact everyone knows he hates JJ, Yuri is here.

Thankfully, Otabek doesn’t spot him until after he has stumbled through his speech. He’s safely hidden behind his decks before a whirling light falls on Yuri where he’s moving in perfect time with the music, his face haughty as he glares at an extremely drunk Viktor Nikiforov being held upright by his equally sozzled husband.

He’s dancing alone. Otabek knows he’s currently single, thanks to the various fan groups he’s joined from pure desperation for news. 

Yuri’s beautiful—tall and lithe and powerful. His hair falls down his back in a sweep of gold, his hips sway to the music, and a line of sweat makes his shirt cling to his back.

And now, years too late, Otabek doesn’t simply see it. He feels it—in his gut, in his groin, in the hot prickle of his palms. 

He’s never felt like this before—never  _wanted_ like this, never needed to touch and stroke and rut.

It’s terrifying.

He closes his eyes, tries to pretend it isn’t happening, but when he opens them again, Yuri is still the centre of the room. Otabek can’t look away. 

He’s spent his entire adult life yearning for Yuri Plisetsky, but he’s never understood why Yuri kissed him in the first place. He understands now and it’s bitter because it’s far too late, far too fucking late.

He swallows back the pain and panic and keep the music playing because at this point there’s nothing else he can do.

Eventually Isabella drags him out from behind the decks. She’s glowing with happiness and much as JJ annoys him sometimes Otabek can’t regret introducing them. He dances with her, and out of the corner of his eye sees Yuri offer his hand to Anor. It’s a slow dance, and she leans on Yuri to shuffle across the floor, and Otabek remembers a long ago summer when Yuri was just as gentle with all the small cousins who mobbed him.

Isabella follows his gaze and says, clearly surprised, “So he can be sweet.”

“Yeah,” Otabek says.

She looks up at him, eyes narrowing, and then says, “Oh. I didn’t realise it was like that.”

“Not anymore,” Otabek tells her. “Not for him.”

“Oh, Beka.”

“Don’t. Not tonight. Where’s your idiot husband?”

“He’s not really an idiot,” she says and then her eyes fill with tears. “Oh my God. He’s my  _husband_.”

He passes her back to JJ, both of their eyes shining, and then is seized by Emil. Before long, he’s danced with Mickey too and Sara and Mila and Chris (who unknowingly proves that it is just Yuri, because Otabek doesn’t care at all when Chris’ hands start to wander) and then JJ himself. He avoids the hockey crowd, glances across at Yuri again (he’s dancing with JJ’s little sister now and she’s gazing at him with eyes so full of stars it can only end in disaster) and then offers his arm to Isabella’s grandmother, who spends the rest of the evening trying to teach him the lindy hop.

He looks up once, sees Yuri staring at him fiercely from across the room, and looks away as his cheeks bloom with a blush. 

 

When Otabek flies home, Almaty feels very quiet.

Sometimes he wonders if he should have stayed in Montreal himself. He’s done it before.

But Almaty is home, if home can be a place and not a person.

He falls back into a routine. Practice, conditioning, competition. He speaks to Anor over Skype every Tuesday and to Isabella every other Thursday. He DJs at the weekends, smiles quietly for the local friends who don’t understand skating and the faraway ones who don’t understand life without it. His life is full of people and events, challenges to overcome and dreams to fulfill.

But he doesn’t have Yuri and there’s a void at the heart of it all that can’t be filled.

Sometimes, alone in his flat at nights, he touches himself. This much is not new, but he’s never done it with someone specific in mind before. He finds that only one person will do—trying to think of anyone else turns desire into disinterest.

It’s only Yuri. He’s sure by now that it’s only ever going to be Yuri.

But it’s too late. Yuri hates him now.

Otabek’s fantasies roam into dark, sad places, to angry sex in abandoned hallways and a lover who only fucks him to prove his power. They tear at his heart. He wants the Yuri he used to know—the one who never hesitated to ask him for everything, the one who trusted him.

But that was a long time ago.

Slowly, he begins to lose his grip on the idea of home. He’s floating across the world again.

Paris, Osaka, Turin, Colorado Springs, Dortmund.

Perhaps, he thinks sometimes, lost above the clouds, he chose the wrong metaphor. Yuri was never a meteor simply passing through his life. He was a star and without him there is no gravity, nothing to hold Otabek down to Earth.

Hartford Tokyo Quebec City Osaka Nice.

But eventually everyone falls.

And when Otabek does, it’s bad.

He doesn’t realise how bad it is at first. He’s warming up for his free skate in that year’s Worlds, misjudges the timing of a jump and clips the edge of the boards with the tip of his boot. 

And he falls, too hard and fast to do much more than throw one arm out to cushion his fall and another to cover his face. His legs are still locked together and he tries in vain to untwist them in time.

He hits the ice hard enough that everything goes numb with the shock of it, his forehead hitting the ice, his hand crushed beneath his cheekbone, and his leg twisted under him, skate slashing across his thigh. His first reaction is annoyance—he hasn’t done something that stupid since he was a graceless kid. He tries to sit up.

And the rink swims around him, hazy and billowing. He swallows hard as his stomach rises and then the pain hits.

There’s noise all around him, someone screaming his name, and he blinks past the sudden rush of tears flooding his eyes.

Yuri’s swearing at him, his voice shrill and frightened as he grabs Otabek’s thigh and why the fuck is he doing that—doesn’t he know how much it hurts?

His thigh is red with blood, and he thinks that’s not right. He says, his voice slower than it should be, “Shit.”

“Don’t you fucking bleed out on me, Beka,” Yuri snarls at him and, oh, he’s using the heels of his hands to hold the hole in Otabek’s leg together. “I will kill you with my own bare hands.”

“Okay,” Otabek agrees wistfully. It really hurts, in a terrible pulsing way that makes his whole body shake. He grabs at Yuri, because this is important, and says, “Whatever you want.”

It’s all on his face. He knows it is. He can’t hide it.

It hurts.

The last thing he sees before he passes out is Yuri’s eyes going wider and wider with fear and disbelief.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent hours researching possible figure skating accidents and I'm still not sure if that one's possible. Let's just call it a horrible freak accident, okay.
> 
> Things will get better. I promise.


	3. Chapter 3

_Love is not love_

_Which alters when it alteration finds,_

_Or bends with the remover to remove._

 

He wakes to the soft sound of beeping and dim lights. The windows are dark too, and there are only a few people moving along the hallway outside. He blinks at them all slowly—gradually making sense of what he can see.

A hospital, at night, and he hurts, from the throb of his head to a burn in his thigh to the fainter ache of his whole body.

His brain isn’t working at the right speed, but he untangles that slowly.

He must have fallen.

He can’t quite remember it. All that floats into his head is a beautiful, terrified face.

Yuri.

He fell and Yuri…caught him?

That doesn’t seem quite right, but he’s not sure why. Instead, he holds onto the name, curling his hand up against the pillow as if he can physically tether himself to it. Then he drifts back to sleep.

The next time he wakes up, it’s daylight and Aleks is sitting beside his bed. His coach looks like he hasn’t slept much and Otabek feels a vague wave of guilt. He asks, “Did I miss the free skate?”

Aleks jumps, relief flooding across his face, and then shakes his head a little. “Yes, Otabek, you missed the free skate.”

“Yuri won?”

“He got silver. I think you threw him off his game.”

“He’ll be mad again.”

Aleks mutters something Otabek can’t make out and calls a doctor. Then it’s all routine—location (he doesn’t know the hospital’s name—apologises for that carefully), what happened before he passed out (Yuri), his score for the short program (114.24—behind Yuri), a list of words he can’t repeat back until Aleks translates them into Kazakh, the months in reverse order (he can do it in Russian, but muddles it in English), the words again, the name of his best friend (Yuri—no, Isabella now).

“Yuri doesn’t like me anymore,” he tells Aleks, which should be proof enough that he knows when and who he is.

They look a little worried, though he thinks he’s done quite well. While they’re discussing him in low voices, he goes back to sleep again.

The next time he wakes up, his head actually is clearer, and Yuri Plisetsky is scrunched into the seat beside his bed, glaring at him from under the hood of his team jacket.

“You got silver,” Otabek says to him. It comes out more bluntly than he intended.

“Yeah, well, I was distracted by being up to my elbows in some dickhead’s blood.”

“Sorry. Well done.”

Yuri makes an irritated noise at him. Otabek blinks back at him. He hit his head pretty hard. It’s quite possible he’s imagining this.

“You’re a hallucination,” he tells Yuri.

“The fuck I am.” Yuri shoots an arm out and presses his hand to Otabek’s cheek. “See.”

His hand is warm, a little sweaty, bigger than the last time Otabek touched it. He’s real, though. Otabek relaxes. Yuri’s here.

“What I actually am,” Yuri snaps, “is still on your emergency contacts list. Since when have I been on your fucking emergency contacts list?”

“You’re more likely to be around than anyone else,” Otabek tells him, which he thinks is reasonable enough.

Yuri scrunches his face up into a terrible grimace. It’s sweet, and Otabek realises belatedly that relaxing was a mistake. He’s already drifting away again. He says, as the start of an apology, “Yura…” but fades out before he can decide what comes next.

When he wakes up again, Yuri has taken his hand back but is still there, flicking through a magazine with an expression of disdain. Otabek watches him for a while, his brain stuck trying to work out how Yuri has folded almost six foot of athlete into a chair that small.

After a while, Yuri starts looking back, staring at him over the top of the magazine. It’s not the glower he’s been giving Otabek on the podium for years, but it’s not exactly friendly, either. For a long time, they just stare at each other. Yuri’s clearly working his way up to something and Otabek’s happy to wait.

At last, Yuri drops the magazine and lashes his foot out to kick Otabek—very lightly—in his good leg. He says, as if it’s an accusation, “So how long have you been in love with me, asshole?”

Otabek’s in no fit state to lie, so he just says, “Since the first time I saw you.”

Yuri’s face crumples into a scowl again, as if he’s trying to hide something. “Yeah, right. Then why did you—” He clamps his words shut on the words.

Otabek watches him and tries to find a way to explain what he’s never even articulated to himself. Yuri’s mouth and brows are tight and angry, but his eyes—his eyes are wide and bright, as if whatever Otabek is about to say matters.

It does matter.

“I get out of sync,” he says slowly, because it’s the best metaphor he’s found. It’s the most frustrating irony of his life, when everything else in his life is dictated by rhythm. “My heart runs faster than my body.”

He stops. Yuri’s mouth has softened from anger to something else, but he still looks confused. He’s never been very good with metaphors.

Otabek tries again. “Most people—they want to touch first but they _feel_ later. I go backwards.”

Yuri clearly still doesn’t understand, but he says, with utmost conviction, “There’s nothing wrong with backwards.”

Otabek’s head is aching again and his brain gives up and slides off on a tangent. He says, “More points for technical difficulty.”

Yuri stares at him for a few seconds and then lets out a crack of laughter. “You are such a fucking mess, Beka.” And somehow he’s unfolded from the chair in one easy movement and is bending down over the bed. His lips brush over Otabek’s tentatively.

It has none of the demands of their first kiss, but this one is infinitely better, because this time Otabek feels it too. He lifts his mouth against Yuri’s, clumsy and unsure, and feels heat bloom under his skin at the softness of Yuri’s mouth parting against his.

Then Yuri retreats to his chair, cheeks pink, and goes back to scowling at him.

“Yura?” Otabek breathes.

“Go to sleep, idiot.”

But he holds Otabek’s hand until he does.

 

When he wakes up again, Yuri’s gone.

 

For a long time, he isn’t sure how much of that was real and how much the concussion.

Otabek really hates concussions. Even after an extra week in Nice, the flight home was deeply unpleasant, and the enforced rest and quiet make him jittery and bad-tempered. He hears nothing from Yuri and doesn’t know what he should do—should he reach out? Was that kiss the start of something new or just the end of something that never ended cleanly.

It’s a very difficult few months. Coming back from injury is never easy and he’s old for a skater. He and Aleks talk in circles around the possibility of retirement, but everything in Otabek rebels at the idea. He still wants to skate—wants to win. He’s still got things to prove. He’s not ready to give up.

But getting back to the ice is hard—weeks of physio and carefully proscribed conditioning. When he is finally cleared to skate simple circuits of the rink again, he feels like a baby deer, legs trembling and unwieldy. He puts up a video anyway, tries to smile for the camera, determined that no one think one fall can stop him.

Yuri likes it.

Then he reposts it, with a comment of, _Looking forward to seeing you in the GP series, @otabek-altin._

Otabek clutches his phone all evening, rereading that in sheer bewilderment. He has no idea what that’s supposed to mean.

“I’d forgotten you used to be friends,” JJ says over Isabella’s shoulder later. “Before you got your sanity back, I mean.”

Isabella reaches backwards without looking and smacks her husband. “Be nice to Otabek.”

“I’m always nice,” JJ complains. “I just don’t see why he’d want to be friends with Plisetsky when he’s already friends with me.”

“It’s not the same,” Otabek says.

“It better not be,” Isabella said sternly and Otabek sees the moment when JJ catches up. He promptly gets very loud, even for him, until Isabella rolls her eyes and takes her phone out of earshot so she can talk to Otabek.

“You have terrible taste in men,” she tells him, not unkindly. In the background, JJ is still wailing about brain bleach.

Otabek sighs. “I don’t know what he wants.”

“You could ask him.”

It’s the same advice he got from Anor an hour ago and he gives Isabella the same horrified look he sent his sister.

Isabella laughs. “I remember when we fifteen and I spent half my life dealing with girls who wanted to know if you might date them. You ran away just as fast then.”

“We’re not in high school any more.”

She grins at him, propping her chin on her fist. “Oh, I don’t know. Would you like me to ask my friend Mila to ask her friend Yuri if he _likes_ you back?”

And then she laughs at him until he gives up and hangs up to lie there and feel sorry for himself.

 

Yuri keeps liking his posts, but he never gets in contact. He does unblock Otabek. Otabek cautiously likes some posts in return and continues to work himself as hard as he can. He’s still going to be a long way from his best when the Grand Prix season starts.

Sometimes, going from the cold of the rink to the sultry summer evenings, he thinks about how much easier it was when he was eighteen, and could just swoop in on his motorbike and play hero. Everything’s more complicated now.

He wonders whether Yuri is worrying too, far away in Japan, in that quiet little town by the sea. Otabek barely remembers the visit they made there, in that one good year—it has only stayed with him as an impression of sunlight and laughter. He hopes it feels like home for Yuri.

He draws Skate Canada and the Rostelecom Cup this year—the second and fifth competitions. Yuri draws Skate Canada too and the NHK trophy.

Skate Canada is in Montreal this year, so he buries all his nerves—about whether his leg will be okay, about Yuri, about what happens next—and concentrates on how much he’s looking forward to seeing Anor again.

Anor’s grown so much—not in height, but in confidence. She tells him cheerfully, “My fans are very excited. I’ve told them all that my brother is visiting.”

Otabek groans. He’s seen some of her fans’ comments about him. How people can concoct a whole idea of him from the occasional glimpse of his hands is baffling.

“You don’t have to show them your face,” Anor reminds him. She’s got a little ground floor set of rooms in a building that is otherwise full of grad students. She shares them with a girl Otabek knows by sight—a skater who retired after a back injury last year who is now studying physiotherapy. Katie stays just long enough to exchange skating gossip and swipe leftovers—she tells him cheerfully, “I don’t know how you managed to stick to a training diet when your sister cooks like this. My hips would have been too wide to get on the rink.”

“She can make anything edible,” Otabek says, smiling at Anor. “Even a training diet.”

Katie blinks at him, and then shakes her head at him. “Wow. If you smiled more, your reputation would be completely different.”

“What’s wrong with my reputation?” he asks, but she just laughs and leaves them to catch up.

He turns to Anor, who laughs at him too. “Don’t you read your fan sites?”

“Never,” he says, with a shudder.

“You’re the scary bad boy of the ice skating world, Beka.”

He sighs.

“Mind you, the same sites still think your Yuri is an ice fairy. Even after the tattoos.”

“He’s not my Yuri,” Otabek protests, though his cheeks grow hot. He has pictures of those tattoos saved on his phone—the dates of every international gold medal Yuri has ever won spiralling around his bicep like a snake.

Anor snorts. “And what’s your theme this year?”

“Renewal,” Otabek says with a sigh.

“And his?”

There’s no point pretending he doesn’t know. “Phoenix. I haven’t actually spoken to him since…”

“Since?” she prompts. He pretends not to have heard her.

She live streams making pirozhkis that night, performing confidently for the camera as he sits out of sight and listens. She looks so comfortable now. Her English is still slow, but she definitely doesn’t need him to translate. She doesn’t need him at all, and he’s both so proud it hurts and a little sad.

Then she puts him to use anyway, making him read out the questions from her followers so she can answer them as she works.

**BerryNice:** _Ooh, looks good. How long do you leave the dough to rise?_

“About an hour,” Anor says. “It should go three times bigger.”

**MrsKBrown:** _Any suggestions if your local store doesn’t stock dill seed?_

**CakeFiend2309:** _My MIL puts pork and potato in hers. Always wanted to know how to make them, tho._

“You can put pretty much anything in these as long as you chop it small. I don’t use pork, of course, but I posted a recipe with mutton last year—Beka will find the link for you.”

He does quite happily. It’s nice to think about something that isn’t the ice or his foolish heart.

**Hope2Be:** _Oooh, is this the mysterious Beka? Missed his earlier appearances. He’s got a very nice voice._

Otabek doesn’t read that one out, but Anor says, “Did one of you just write something to make my brother blush? Be nice. He’s shy.”

“Anora,” Otabek complains.

**AngryTigerLord666:** _Yeah, leave him alone, you stupid hags. This is a cooking channel._

Otabek narrows his eyes.

**Hope2Be:** _Sorry, Beka. Just curious :)_

**CakeFiend2309:** _Oh, shut up, ATL. Why do you always have to start something?_

**AngryTigerLord666:** _Just watch the cooking. Is there going to be cheese? There needs to be cheese._

Otabek says dryly, “AngryTigerLord wants cheese. He hasn’t said please.” What is Yuri doing? How long has he been commenting on these videos?

**CakeFiend2309:** _Haha. Mysterious Beka does snark! Serves you right, ATL._

Anor says calmly, “Tell him I know he’s not allowed cheese.”

**AngryTigerLord666:** _*sulks*_

Anora says, “Okay, filling’s ready, so I’m going back to the dough. Pass it across, please.”

Otabek does, careful to keep his face out of sight. It’s been a while since they did this and he’s out of practice.

**Hope2Be:** _Wow. Beka has *nice* forearms. What do you do, Beka?_

**BerryNice:** _Oh, you are new. He never tells us._

**Hope2Be:** _Aw._

**AngryTigerLord666:** _Pfft. Like it’s hard to build up muscle._

**CakeFiend2309:** _Oh, come on. We all know you live in your mother’s basement and probably couldn’t lift a weight if it was sitting on your lap._

Otabek says hastily, before this gets out of hand. “Sport. I do sport. Aren’t there comment guidelines for this? There used to be.”

Anor says, “You’re moderating tonight, Beka. Now we roll the dough out in a long line, like a snake.”

“You used to love me,” Otabek tells her reproachfully. Suddenly, he’s having fun. He still doesn’t know what game Yuri is playing, but it makes him want to smile and return the challenge.

“Poor Beka.”

**Hope2Be:** _What kind of sport?_

**AngryTigerLord666:** _Heh. ‘Sport’. Riiiiight._

**Hope2Be:** _Don’t be mean, AngryTigerLord666._

**CakeFiend2309:** _It’s his default mode. Come on, ATL. What do you do that’s so great?_

**AngryTigerLord666:** _Oh, I do ‘sport’ too. Why do you think I come here? It’s to torture myself with all the food I can’t eat while I’m training._

Otabek says, though he knows he’ll regret it later, “Not because you like us?”

Yuri doesn’t comment again for several minutes.

**CakeFiend2309:** _Wow. That shut ATL up._

**BerryNice:** _Could we maybe, just maybe, get back to the cooking now?_

The kitchen is full of the scent of pirozhkis frying. It’s warm and homely and comfortable. Otabek relaxes again, smiling. He hadn’t expected his next conversation with Yuri to go like this, but it was fun.

He’s been worrying about seeing Yuri again for so long that he almost forgot that exhilaration is the other side of fear.

He glances down at the screen in time to see Yuri post again.

**AngryTigerLord666:** _OF COURSE I LIKE YOU BOTH!!!!!_

**CakeFiend2309:** _Wow, ATL, that was almost cute. For a two-year-old with rage issues, that is._

As all hell breaks loose in the comments again, Otabek begins to laugh.

**Hope2Be:** _And he has a nice laugh too. Are you single, Beka?_

**AngryTigerLord666:** _What the hell business of yours is that, you vacuous cow?_

**AngryTigerLord666:** _And, yeah, he does._

**CakeFiend2309:** _OMG, ATL, was that a moment of human weakness? Won’t your demonic overlords have to drag you back to hell now?_

**AngryTigerLord666:** _I’m RUSSIAN! Hell would be a pleasant change of climate._

 

Much later, after the live stream is over, he tells Anor, “Your fans are crazier than mine.”

“How would you know? You never talk to yours.”

“How long has Yuri been…”

“Oh, a few years now,” she tells him blithely.

“Seriously?”

She pats his hand kindly. “He was never cross with me. I didn’t break his heart.”

Otabek almost chokes on his pirozkhi. “Anora.”

“You’re fixing it now, aren’t you?” she asks, and there’s so much hope in her voice he’s afraid to disappoint her. “You’re both going to be happy again.”

He hopes so.

 

He doesn’t know why he’s surprised when the last thing she hands him before he leaves for the rink is a bag of pirozhkis. She says blithely, “Yuri’s expecting them.”

Half-flirting with Yuri online when nobody else knew who they were is one thing. This is a lot more awkward.

It shouldn’t be. This is Yuri, who fits in the empty place in his heart—Yuri, who he never had to hesitate with when they were friends.

He never feels fear on the ice. He refuses to feel it now. As grimly as if he’s facing battle, Otabek marches into the skaters’ area and searches until he finds Yuri pacing up and down the hallway. They practised at different times this morning, so he hasn’t seen Yuri face to face yet.

Viktor notices him first, lifts an eyebrow at Otabek, and then murmurs something to Yuri.

Yuri immediately spins round on his heel and stares.

Otabek stares back.

Talking to Yuri used to be easy.

Of course, now he has to look up to meet Yuri’s eyes and now he wants to kiss Yuri, which makes it all more complicated.

Yuri’s going faintly pink.

Otabek thrusts the bag forward and says, “From my sister.”

Yuri keeps staring, his eyes wide.

“Are those pirozhkis?” Viktor asks, reaching out.

Yuri’s hand flashes out and he snatches them from Otabek, clutching them close to his chest. “ _Mine_.” Then he goes back to staring.

Otabek relaxes a bit. Whatever else has happened in the last few years, Yuri is still part cat. It makes him smile.

Yuri goes even pinker. It clashes horribly with his scarlet costume. He opens his mouth, closes it again.

Viktor has clasped his hands over his heart and appears to be holding his breath.

And Otabek can’t move, because Yuri was beautiful when all he did was scowl and hiss at him. A Yuri who doesn’t hate him—who is blushing for him—is the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

Then, somewhere behind him, JJ hollers, “Otabek! Where are you?”

“What’s _he_ doing here?” Yuri demands. It’s a fair question. JJ got Skate America and the Cup of China this year.

“His brother’s making his senior debut here,” Otabek explains. Viktor has covered his mouth with his hands and is switching his gaze between them as if he’s at a tennis match.

Yuri’s brows draw together. “There are _more_ of them?”

“Otabek!” JJ’s getting closer.

“I’ll, uh, see him off,” Otabek offers.

“Yeah. Okay. Thanks.”

Otabek takes a reluctant step away and Yuri moves again, grabbing his hand. Otabek freezes.

“And say thanks to Anar too,” Yuri mutters, all on one breath and lets go.

Otabek stumbles away to get rid of JJ before he shows up to make this any more excruciating. Behind him, he hears Viktor let out a little squeal, immediately followed by the distinctive sound of Yuri yelling at his coach.

For the first time in years, everything feels just right.

 

And then, as he’s standing by the edge of the rink, waiting to start his short programme, it gets better. From the stands behind him, a familiar voice rings out.

“ _Davai_ , Otabek!”

He looks up, startled and disbelieving, and meets Yuri’s gaze.

Otabek lifts his hand in acknowledgement, smiles, and takes to the ice.

And then he flies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suck at estimating length. Heading for 4 chapters now since I've still got a couple of longish scenes left.
> 
> I honestly thought at the start of this that I might end up writing a calmer, more adult Yuri to balance out Otabek's woobiness in this one. Nah. Obviously not XD


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And here's the last part. Links to the music embedded, because I spent ages agonising over the choices and I like it when people share :)

_Let me not to the marriage of true minds_

_Admit impediments._

 

He and Aleks had debated for months about themes and meanings. They had compromised on strength, but that’s not what Otabek thinks of now, tracing his first step sequence across the ice as the tempo of the [Dvořák](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wc1_kjRtydE) quickens. Instead he thinks of how this programme has been designed to show off every one of his strengths—to tell the world, _I’m not giving up._

Not just the world.

It’s not the most challenging programme he’s ever skated, not yet. It’s early in the season. All he has to do is get to the final with Yuri.

Triple axel, into the spin combination, and here’s the halfway point, so quad salchow-triple loop, landed cleanly, flying spin, the long flow across the ice to rise into the last jump sequence—here’s his quad lutz— _do you see that, Yuri?_ —and the combination spin which takes him to his final pose.

He looks up as the music slides to a close, scanning the crowds until he’s looking straight at Yuri.

 _I won’t give up_ , Otabek thinks, heart pounding and chest heaving. _I won’t give up on this. Not this time._

He comes off the ice to applause he barely notices. Yuri’s waiting by the edge of the rink, ready for his turn, and he’s staring again. Aleks is waiting, and Viktor is talking at Yuri, but they barely seem real to Otabek as he makes his way forward. He keeps his gaze locked on Yuri.

Aleks helps him off the ice. He’s saying something positive, but Otabek doesn’t register much more than his tone.

Yuri nods at him, hard and sharp, and shrugs his jacket off, letting Viktor catch it. The lights catch on the truly astonishing number of flame-coloured sequins coating his sleeves and shoulders.

Otabek’s mouth is dry, but he swallows and says, so softly that he doubts anyone beyond the four of them can hear, “ _Davai_ , Yura.”

It might just be the reflection of his costume, but he’s pretty sure Yuri’s blushing. He’s not the only one.

Otabek has to bolt for the kiss and cry then, before he does something unforgiveable like distract Yuri. Aleks drops down beside him and mutters, “Again? Seriously?”

“This time will be different,” Otabek tells him. He’s slid out the other side of fear now. He’s skated—skated well—and Yuri hasn’t started hating him again. Everything else is a minor detail.

Aleks says, with a fresh note of horror, “I think you just made Viktor Nikiforov cry.”

“He’s a very emotional man,” Otabek says calmly, watching Yuri step onto the ice and lean in to snarl at Viktor.

“You know what I’m going to do when we get to Moscow,” Aleks mutters. “I’m going to buy Yakov Feltsman a drink and ask him how he has any hair left at all.”

Then the scores come in and he sits up, eyes narrowing.

98.89. Nowhere near his personal best, but if he gets through his free skate without problems, he’ll have a good chance at the final. He lets Aleks nudge him out of the kiss and cry, but stays close enough to the edge to watch.

The first strains of the [Firebird finale](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0-OBzD5Es4c) float across the ice, and Yuri begins to move. As always, Otabek can’t look away. Everyone’s done this music at some point in their career, but only Yuri Plisetsky can so casually do it _better_. Yuri skates as if he _is_ fire, as if he has declared war on gravity and is enjoying grinding its face into the dust. He skates as if he isn’t human.

And yet, he is not the same skater he was the first time he blazed his way across the ice. The technical verve and terrifying grace are still there, refined beyond normal human limitations, but he is more than grace now. There is grief and rage and hope in every movement. When the music rises into the second half, Yuri launches himself into a sequence of jumps and spins as if he’s flicking the very trammels of the earth from the blades of his skates, and Otabek holds his breath, unable to look away.

“Breathe,” Aleks murmurs at him, but he’s spellbound too.

A final spin as the music soars to its conclusion and Yuri ends his performance posed on one knee, a gleaming arm raised towards the ceiling as his hair spills down his back.

When he relaxes, the first place he looks is at Otabek.

If Otabek’s routine claimed, _I won’t give up_ , Yuri’s says, _Nothing will stop me now._

“Do not do a Nikiforov,” Aleks says urgently in his ear. “There are journalists waiting to interview you and we do _not_ need that publicity.”

“It’s traditional to wait until after the free skate,” Otabek agrees vaguely and is sure why that doesn’t seem to reassure Aleks.

He gets to hear Yuri’s score before the press close in around him, with questions about his recovery and his hopes for the season and the inevitable retirement questions which haunt every skater over the age of twenty-two. By the time, he escapes them, Yuri’s been caught up in the same game, and then JJ and Isabella appear, with a jubilant Matthieu in tow (he’s in second going into the free programme), and by the time he’s fended them off, found Anor and Katie, and got Anor and her chair to Katie’s car, he’s lost track of Yuri.

“Tomorrow,” he tells Anor, as Katie tries to negotiate the traffic.

“Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow.”

“What’s happening tomorrow?” Katie asks curiously.

“My brother’s going to realise a long-held dream,” Anor says.

“To win Skate Canada? Think you can beat Plisetsky?”

Otabek decides not to remind her he’s already won this particular tournament twice in his career.

 

He’s tired, and he can see Anor is too—big, busy events are stressful when she can’t move through the crowds easily. Katie heads off to her boyfriend’s, Anor takes a nap, and Otabek settles down conscientiously to update his social media. Anor is planning another recording tonight, but he intends to head to bed right afterwards so he can be up early to practise.

And then he sees the picture. Yuri has posted a photo of Anor’s pirozhkis, with the caption, _Look what my favourite girl @anor_piala made me! PIROZHKIS!!!_

And, to make things worse, Anor has replied, _Yay! You got them! Enjoy :)_

Neither of them have made their posts private. There are a lot of comments. A terrifying number of comments.

Otabek’s first instinct is fury. He’s worked so hard to keep Anor and her life away from exactly this kind of publicity. Yuri, of all people, should know better than to throw her name out for his fans to seize upon.

If Anor was awake, he’d tell her exactly how stupid it is to…

Except that his sister is twenty-one years old, has lived overseas by herself for years, and understands the internet well enough to cover most of her living costs from ad revenue. There’s no way she did this without knowing the risk.

That doesn’t mean he has to like it.

He glares at her when she makes her way back into the kitchen. She’s using her sticks to get around the flat, which means she really is tired, but he tries to harden his heart.

She takes one look at his face and says, “You saw the picture, then?”

“I did.”

“He asked me before he put it up.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m not angry with you.”

She folds her arms and meets him glare for glare. “No more hiding places, Beka.”

What?

“Are you too mad to heat up honey for the camera?”

“You’re doing another livefeed?”

“For all my new followers,” she says and smirks at him.

“I’ll help,” he says but keeps glaring.

He can already tell that it’s going to be a struggle tonight. He fetches the ingredients she demands and sets them on the table in front of her, and tries very hard not to be mollified by the fact they’re all flavours he likes. They work out an angle where she can see her screen and the questions on it without revealing what he’s doing in the background (which is to say, she works it out and he does as he’s told).

“Welcome back, everyone, and hi to all the new followers,” she says brightly. “Yesterday, Beka helped me make pirozhkis for a friend, but today I’m making halva for him, even though he’s a grumpypants.”

Otabek has the comments on his phone as well, for no reason whatsoever, thank you, Anor’s smirk.

 **Hope2Be:** _Aw, why are you grumpy, Beka?_

“Traditionally, I’d grind the sesame seeds to paste myself, but we’re doing this the quick and easy way, so I’m using tahini, which you can buy in most international supermarkets. Halva are sesame and honey sweets, but you can add other flavours if you like.” She’s chopping pistachios as she speaks, her hands deft with the knife. “Since I love my brother, even though he’s mad at me, I’m going to add pistachios and rosewater which are his favourites.”

“I’m not mad at you,” Otabek grumbles.

 **BerryNice:** _Oh, he’s mad. What did you do, Anor?_

 **CakeFiend2309:** _Um, guys. Guys. Are we not talking about this?_

 **Hope2Be:** _Talking about what?_

 **CakeFiend2309:** _About how Anor knows YURI PLISETSKY! h ttp://bit.ly/ins31d YURI PLISETSKY ate Anor’s pirozhkis!!!_

Otabek drops his head into his hands and sighs.

 **Hope2Be:** _Whose Yuri Plisetsky?_

 **CakeFiend2309:** _Only the BEST figure skater in the WORLD!_

 **AngryTigerLord666:** _Second best, actually._

Anor’s laughing so hard she has to put the knife down.

 **CakeFiend2309:** _What because some upstart kid beat him in the Worlds! He had an excuse because that accident was awful and traumatic. Nobody’s won as many golds or broken any records as he has—not even Viktor Nikiforov!_

 **AngryTigerLord666:** _Otabek Altin’s better. And Plisetsky wasn’t the one who got horribly injured. He had no excuse for losing._

“Would you like me to take over the chopping?” Otabek asks. “So you can do the cooking—that thing we’re all supposed to be here for.”

 **AngryTigerLord666:** _Yeah, stop distracting Anor, Fiend._

 **Hope2Be:** _I’m confused._

 **CakeFiend2309:** _Only because ATL is being an idiot. Again. This is what Yuri Plisetsky did this afternoon, and this is Otabek Altin. Not even in the same league._

Anor says, “Beka can find you better links than that. He’s a huge fan.”

“This is why I’m mad at her,” Otabek says, though his bad mood is evaporating rapidly.

Anor giggles. “We’re going to roast the nuts on a low temperature now, and start warming the honey. Beka’s doing that bit today, so hit me with your questions.”

 **Hope2Be:** _Oh, wow. Are all figure skaters so pretty?_

 **CakeFiend2309:** _They’re not pretty. They’re world class athletes doing one of the most dangerous sports in the world!_

 **AngryTigerLord666:** _What Fiend said._

 **BerryNice:** _How do you know when the honey’s hot enough, Anor? (Guys, seriously, this is meant to be about Anor’s amazing cooking. Take it off thread, please)._

 **CakeFiend666:** _Oh, crap, did we agree on something, ATL? And, yeah, sorry, Berry. Shutting up now._

“You can use a sugar thermometer, in which case you want it to be about 240 Fahrenheit, but I like the old-fashioned way. It won’t be there yet, so talk skating if you like, or ask anything. I’m going to start warming the tahini. I’ve got an oiled cake tin ready, but this is a good point to do that as well. You want everything in this recipe to be warm and soft when you combine them.”

 **No1TrophyHusband:** _Wow! Amazing!_

 **BerryNice:** _Hello, newbie :)_

 **AngryTigerLord666:** _Fuck off fuck off fuck off_

 **BerryNice:** _This is an all ages chat, ATL. Don’t swear! Sorry about that, No1TrophyHusband._

 **No1TrophyHusband:** _No offense taken. Anor’s pirozhkis were amazing. I had to find out more._

 **AngryTigerLord666:** _And now you have to DIE IN A HOLE!!!_

 **No1TrophyHusband:** _Such passion :) :) :)_

 **CakeFiend2309:** _I have this theory that ATL is a shy little mouse IRL._

Otabek says, before he can stop himself. “No.”

 **CakeFiend2309:** _Oh?_

“Uh, it would be shame, I mean,” Otabek says hurriedly.

 **AngryTigerLord666:** _I…._

 **No1TrophyHusband:** _And now it all makes sense._

 **AngryTigerLord666:** _I will EAT YOUR PHONE!_

 **Hope2Be:** _Did I miss something?_

 **CakeFiend2309:** _Only the usual. Where did you go?_

 **Hope2Be:** _*dreamy sigh* OMG, figure skating is the best. Does anyone know how long it takes to become an official Yuri’s Angel? I just signed up._

 **AngryTigerLord666:** _tggtuhgftuhgftuhrgduhde_

 **No1TrophyHusband:** _Did you just keyboard smash your phone?_

 **AngryTigerLord666:** _OTABEK ALTIN HAS A FANCLUB TOO_

Anor says hurriedly, “Smells like the nuts are done. You just want them crispy enough to add texture. Beka, if you could…”

Otabek tries his best to glare at her as he does. This is all her fault.

On the other hand, he hasn’t had this much fun mid-competition since the last time he was Yuri Plisetsky’s friend.

 **CakeFiend2309:** _Um, this may be a crazy question, but I just started wondering. So Anor knows some of the top skaters in the world and Beka’s just happens to be in Montreal the same weekend as Skate Canada, and we’ve never seen his face ever and he said yesterday that he did sport, so…._

 **AngryTigerLord666:** _Already bored of this question._

 **CakeFiend2309:** _Beka, are you Otabek Altin?_

 _No more hiding places_ , Anor has told him, and he’d skated to the theme of courage only a few hours ago. Otabek said, very calmly, “Yes, I am. Do you want me to check the honey, Anora?”

“You can hold the camera,” Anor said, and turned her phone towards him. “Wave and smile.”

Otabek managed a slightly awkward grimace and lifted his hand in greeting.

 **Hope2Be:** _OMG_

 **CakeFiend2309:** _OMG_

 **BerryNice:** _I have no idea what is going on anymore._

 **AngryTigerLord666:** _BEST NOT-A-SELFIE EVER_

“We love you too,” Otabek said and then released what he’d done. “Er, that is…”

“That is time to check the honey,” Anor said firmly. “Camera first.”

She’s definitely pushed herself too hard today, but her eyes are shining with laughter and delight as she accepts his hand to limp across the kitchen. He keeps the camera on her, managing to hold it steady as he panics over what Yuri might be typing now. She demonstrates dropping the syrupy honey into ice water to check its consistency. Then she adds the nuts and rosewater to the honey.

“This smells perfect,” Otabek says carefully, because this is Anor’s career and it’s his fault it has derailed today. “It smells like the idea of summer.”

“He skates like that too,” Anor says and folds the tahini into the honey very gently. Then she pours it carefully into the tray she has prepared and goes back to her seat while Otabek puts it in the fridge.

“It needs to stay cold for at least twenty four hours,” Anor says. “Beka can have it after the gala the day after tomorrow.”

“It’s not on my diet plan,” Otabek agrees, “but I’ll share it with my coach and he’ll forgive me.” Then he finds the nerve to pick up his phone and look at the messages.

 **Hope2Be:** _I’m joining your fan club too, Beka!_

 **CakeFiend2309:** _You can’t be a fan of both of them. They’re arch-rivals._

 **CakeFiend2309:** _And now I feel really bad. Sorry, Beka. I didn’t know you were nice._

 **Hope2Be:** _Of course he’s nice._

 **CakeFiend2309:** _That's not what the media say!_

 **Hope2Be:** _Oh? :(_

 **CakeFiend2309:** _Here is a picture of him skating to Mars, Bringer of War in a leather jacket._

 **Hope2Be:** _Guh_

 **CakeFiend2309:** _Here is his motorbike…_

 **CakeFiend2309:** _EPIC podium rivalry_

 **CakeFiend2309:** _Here he is arguing with Yuri Plisetsky outside a club in Barcelona where he was DJing. When he was EIGHTEEN!_

 **CakeFiend2309:** _And here he is biting Yuri’s glove off during his exhibition skate the same year._

 **Hope2Be:** _Um, you keep using that word 'rivals'. I do not think it means what you think it means._

 **CakeFiend2309:** _That was before they were rivals._

 **Hope2Be:** _Um, Riiight. I think I need to find me some skating tumblrs. My muses are tingling._

 **AngryTigerLord666:** _Want fic recs? I’ve got fic recs._

 **No1TrophyHusband:** _This is the most beautiful thing in the world right now. I’m actually crying._

 **AngryTigerLord666:** _Yeah, like that’s unusual._

 **BerryNice:** _Um, guys, can we remember that this is Anor’s feed and there’s probably stuff she doesn’t want to see about her brother. Have some respect._

 **BerryNice:** _Also, Beka is right here._

 **No1TrophyHusband:** _Actually, I have it on good authority that reading your own fanfiction can be very inspiraaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa_

Anor said, “I can see from Beka’s face that you’re embarrassing him. I’m calling it a night, folks, but come back tomorrow to see the finished product. New followers who find this tonight, welcome to the madness.”

Otabek looks up at his screen to glare at her. Really?

She grins back. “Here are the rules—this is all ages, so keep the swearing and the innuendo to a minimum. And be nice to my brother.”

 **CakeFiend2309:** _Yeah, ATL. Weren’t you the one making fun of him yesterday. Bet you feel stupid now. How many gold medals have *you* won?_

“Have fun,” Anor tells him and switches off her feed. She rests her cheek on his head and then leaves him to face the comments by himself.

 **Hope2Be:** _Uh, what happened to TrophyHusband’s phone?_

 **AngryTigerLord666:** _It had to leave the land of the living. I put it out of its misery._

Otabek almost regrets not staying in the official hotel. On the other hand, he’s not sure he could interact with Yuri this easily face-to-face, not when just looking at Yuri makes him blush now.

 **Beka:** _How?_

 **AngryTigerLord666:** _Through the window._

 **Hope2Be:** _Um._

 **AngryTigerLord666:** _It was an open window. Duh._

 **Beka:** _Was anyone standing below it?_

 **AngryTigerLord666:** _Oh, crap. Didn’t check. Hang on._

 **Hope2Be:** _OMG, are you actually for real?_

 **AngryTigerLord666:** _It landed in the pool._

 **AngryTigerLord666:** _No one was swimming._

 **Beka:**   _That's cool then._

 **AngryTigerLord666:** _Hah._

 **Axelandra23:** _Um, sort of lurking because I came over from Instagram today, but I just wanted to say how amazing this feed is—totally going to try some of these recipes, and I cannot believe Otabek Altin is doing an unscheduled live chat. I’m such a fan._

He’s more comfortable with Anor’s followers than his own fans, but he still needs to remember that this is public.

 **Beka:** _Nice to meet you. I’m really glad you like Anor’s recipes. They taste as good as they look, I promise. I'm very proud of her :)_

 **Axelandra23:** _That’s so cool. Anyway, I’m staying at the official hotel for Skate Canada and I thought some of you might like to know that they really are trying to fish Viktor Nikiforov’s phone out of the pool right now._

 **CakeFiend2309:** _…………………….._

 **CakeFiend2309:** _!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!_

 **CakeFiend2309:** _IS THERE SOMETHING YOU NEED TO TELL US, ATL?_

 **AngryTigerLord666:** _Oh, crap._

 **CakeFiend2309:** _Are you YURI PLISETSKY?!?!_

 **AngryTigerLord666:**   _And what if I am?_

 **Beka:** _Don’t shout at Yuri, please. He’s welcome here under any name._

 **AngryTigerLord666:** _I’ve been here longer than anyone! Except Beka, obviously._

 **Beka** : _In fairness, he helped Anor set this up._

 **CakeFiend2309:** _I am broken._

 **Axelandra23:** _iz ded_

 **Katsudon_fan29:** _< 3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3 <3_

 **AngryTigerLord666:** _I hate you. Why can’t I have normal coaches?_

 **Beka** : _In fairness, you scare them all off._

 **AngryTigerLord666:** _Pfft._

 **Beka** : _Which means they’re not good enough for you._

 **Hope2Be:** _Awwwww. Also, I have no idea what is going on, but still awwwwww._

 **Katsudon_fan29:** _Yurio, my precious child, I am so happy for you._

 **AngryTigerLord666:** _Get off your husband’s phone, you freak._

Otabek should really bring this to a close before any of them start an international scandal (it may be too late to worry about this. It may have been too late the first time he started taking Yuri’s clothes off with his teeth).

 **Axelandra23:** _There are entire skating forums in screaming meltdown right now. Everyone is going up in flames!!_

Oh, well in that case… It’s always been more fun living by Yuri’s lack-of-rules anyway.

 **Beka** : _And that’s just from watching his firebird programme. His free skate will be even hotter. :)_

 **CakeFiend2309:** _OMG._

 **Beka** : _There’s a reason people say he’s the best in the world. :)_

 **Beka** : _Until the next time I beat him, at least._

 **AngryTigerLord666:** _YOU ARE MY FAVOURITE SKATER IN THE HISTORY OF FOREVER!!!!!!!!!!!_

 **Katsudon_fan29:** _Aw ;_; I’ve been dethroned._

 **AngryTigerLord666:** _I AM ON MY WAY TO KILL YOU, VIKTOR!!_

 **CakeFiend2309:** _Is he actually drunk? Is Viktor drunk too?_

 **Beka** : _This is normal. It's part of his charm._

 **Katsudon_fan29:** _Um, sorry about that. Viktor told me he needed my phone for an emergency._

 **Katsudon_fan29:** _Also, Yuri isn’t supposed to be on social media midway through a competition. I’ve taken his phone away._

 **Beka** : _How?_

 **Katsudon_fan29:** _You probably don’t want to know._

 **Katsudon_fan29:** _Let’s just say it’s in a place even Yuri won’t go._

Otabek is pretty certain that means Yuri’s phone is currently down Viktor’s pants.

 **Katsudon_fan29:** _We’re looking forward to seeing you skate tomorrow, Otabek :) Please tell your sister that the pirozhkis were amazing and we love her blog :) :)_

 **Katsudon_fan29:** _And goodnight everyone._

 **Axelandra23:** _Is that Yuuri Katsuki? We love you too!_

 **Beka** : _I should go too. Early start tomorow. Thank you for supporting my sister , everyone :)_

He logs off and heads to the bed the girls have made up for him on their sofa. The hotel would probably be more comfortable, but he knows he’ll sleep better here, with the scents of Anor’s cooking lingering in the air and the knowledge that she’s just a room away. He settles back against his pillows and shakes his head, smiling to himself. Yuri is ridiculous and beautiful and everything he posted tonight made Otabek want to push him further, made him want and want. It’s strange to think that only a few months ago, before he fell, he felt more alone than he ever had.

This feels more like home, and it’s not because of the slightly lumpy sofa beneath him. Home is his sister teasing him, and Yuri delivering glorious chaos to his dull life.

And Otabek wants more.

Tomorrow, he promises himself as he drifts off to sleep. Tomorrow.

 

Aleks is not impressed with him the next morning.

“You should focus on my skating,” Otabek reminds him gravely. “Everything else is just a distraction.”

Aleks folds his arms and rolls his eyes. “Forget that drink. I’m buying Feltsman an entire bar.”

“Don’t tell Viktor,” Otabek says gravely and heads out to practise.

He puts everything else aside then. The competition is everything.

Yuri is practising too, just as intently. He meets Otabek’s gaze once, nods at him, and gives him the slightest side. Otabek nods and smiles in return, his heart warm, and then turns his attention back where it belongs.

It feels like a long wait before he skates. He walks slowly up and down, keeping his muscles loose, and listens to his music on a loop, letting it sink into his bones. After a while, Yuri falls into step beside him. Neither of them speak. But sometimes their hands brush as they move.

When it’s time for Otabek to skate, Yuri pulls his own earphones out and says quietly, “ _Davai_ , Beka.”

Otabek smiles at him, suddenly calm. This is how it’s supposed to be. They perform for the world, but they can be this too.

He takes to the ice with a sense of certainty he hasn’t felt for years, listening to the crowd grow quiet. His free skate costume is very simple this year—black trousers and a white shirt with the thinnest of gold trim. He hopes they will see it for what it is—not humility but a declaration.

His skating needs no enhancement.

He moves into the opening chords of [There Ain’t No Cure for Love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UFFlbBpC0G0) with that certainty still moving with him. If his short programme was about strength, this is one is all promise. There’s none of the risky flash and risk of the younger skaters here—every movement should announce cool and absolute control.

It’s also fiendishly difficult, but that’s what makes it satisfying. _Here I am_ , it says with every change of edge, with every flawless spin, _I have endured it all, the falls, the lonely flights from ice to ice, the heartbreak and the shattered hopes, but I’m still here._

His first jump is a combination, triple lutz-triple loop then into the step sequence which takes him into the second half of the programme.

 _Now watch me_ , he thinks. _Watch what strength can do, what endurance can do. Watch what all these years have taught me._

Quad salchow, camel spin, triple axel out of a spread eagle. Every one hurts, but that’s part of the story.

_Look at what I can endure, to make all these sacrifices worthwhile. Look how much stronger I can still become._

Combination spin and the final jump combination.

There’s a saying that has been floating around for years. Maybe Viktor started it. Maybe it was someone else. Otabek heard it from Yuri first. Call everything on the ice love.

Quad toe loop—triple flip.

 _Here’s my love,_ Otabek thinks, sliding down into a final cantilever. Everything hurts, but that’s not enough to stop him from giving away his whole heart, bruised and battled as it is. He will give his heart to the ice and he will give it to Yuri. Only one of them has the potential to love him back but it doesn’t matter if neither of them do.

It is his to give.

He falls back on the ice as the music ends, blinks at the arched ceiling, listens to the applause swell.

And he smiles.

And then, every joint creaking, he gets to his feet, scoops up the nearest plush flower without looking, and leaves the ice behind him, along with the part of his heart he stakes to it every time.

It’s a very good score. Not a new personal best, not yet, but he’s got time before the final.

And the Olympics, of course, are only months away.

He’s dimly aware that Matthieu Leroy is skating, idly registering the bombast of his programme out of the corner of his eye. It’s not Matthiew he’s waiting for.

Yuri looks very distant as he comes out from backstage. He’s all in black, with the faintest hint of feathers in the cut of his costume. His hair is drawn back tightly. He looks unusually austere and Otabek suddenly wonders what he will look like when he’s forty or sixty. He has no doubt that Yuri will still be able to command attention without a single word.

Yuri turns to look at him, and then he steps forward towards Otabek, out of the shadowy entranceway.

And the lights of the rink catch on the metallic threads sewn through his costume, intricate as chainmail, covering him in a web of light as if he has caught fire.

Otabek rises to his feet, dazzled, and Yuri holds out his hand.

“So,” he says, lifting his chin. “Friends?”

“Always,” Otabek says, taking his hand. “ _Davai_ , Yura. Skate well.”

Yuri’s grin flashes out, vicious and delighted. “Watch this!”

He flashes out to the centre of the rink to the screams of the crowd, and Otabek can’t look away, as the [first guitar riff](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JK9LZQycBBM) roars out and Yuri launches himself across the ice in a blaze of light and glory. His firebird was grace taken to the edge of possibility, but his Swan Lake is dark and dangerous, the kind of extravagantly risky skating that only Yuri can do, because only Yuri can succeed at it.

Over the years, Otabek thinks, his heart swelling, Yuri has turned screaming fuck you at the world into an art form. He will shred the audience’s hearts with one programme and then gleefully skate across the bleeding remains in the next.

Otabek loves him so much.

He’s not going to let him win without a challenge, though—not here, not in the Final, not in the Olympics.

And that too, he thinks dreamily, watching Yuri hurl himself through another near-impossible jump, is just one of the ways to show his love.

Yuri comes off the ice triumphant and barely pauses to put his skate guards on before he stalks forward.

Otabek holds out his arms, because he’s waited long enough for this.

Yuri hugs him hard, chest still heaving from the effort of that skate. “Did you watch?”

“I always watch you,” Otabek tells him honestly and Yuri shudders from head to foot.

Then he says, straight into Otabek’s ear, “We need to talk.”

“Go and hear your score first.”

Yuri huffed. “Beat you in the short, came after you in the free, but close enough that I take gold and you take silver.”

“Don’t spoil the anticipation,” Otabek says and lets go reluctantly. “Or Viktor will make good on that threat to choreograph you a Bolero for your gala piece.”

“He can try,” Yuri says darkly and stalks off to the kiss and cry.

His predication is correct and he barely hesitates long enough to hear it before bounding out of his seat and back to Otabek. He grabs Otabek’s arm and propels them both not just backstage, but behind the first bit of drapery they come across. Then, to Otabek’s dismay, he hesitates.

In the dark, stuffy space, he is nothing but hints of gold and shadow. Then he says, painfully awkward, “I tried to work it out—what you told me, but I don’t know what’s okay to do.”

The time for metaphors is over. Yuri is Yuri. The gold and fire and glory all pale to nothing in comparison to that. Otabek says, stripped bare, “All it means is that I fell in love with you before I wanted to kiss you. But now I’ve caught up, you can do anything.”

“Anything?” Yuri murmurs and his voice has gone low and husky. Otabek’s stomach clenches.

“You can kiss me,” he says and, because he passed the point of no return years ago, he adds, “I want you to kiss me.”

And he leans in and presses his mouth to Yuri’s,

Yuri’s kiss is hot and furious, his arms locking around Otabek as he throws himself into the kiss, plundering his mouth with desperate need. Otabek rises into it, burning as Yuri had burned across the ice, and it’s perfect.

It’s like coming home.

But then, inevitably, someone pulls the curtains back and Viktor carols, “Time for your medals.”

“Tell them to wait,” Yuri snarls. His make-up is smeared across his face and Otabek’s pulled his hair loose. He looks like a disaster and Otabek is leaning in to make it worse before he stops to think.

Viktor sighs and adds sorrowfully, “Olympic year, Yurio.”

And then Yuuri Katsuki slides in past him with a comb and a packet of face wipes and Otabek realises with awed horror that Yuri’s coaches actually carry emergency supplies for just this contingency.

As soon as they’re respectable, Viktor bundles them both onto the ice. Otabek smiles through the medal ceremony in a bewildered haze, and is deeply disappointed when their respective coaches frogmarch them off to do interviews the moment they leave the ice. Matthieu does most of the talking, which is fine until he announces, “We all know that the only person who can beat my brother in the Grand Prix Final is me!”

Yuri makes a noise like a scalded cat and Otabek says thoughtfully, “I remember when you cared more about Pokemon than ice skating.”

Matthieu, who has always had more of a sense of humour than the rest of his family, flashes back, “You’ve got to beat them all, Beka,” and Yuri makes screechy noises of outrage until the press conference descends into mayhem.

They’ve barely escaped when JJ appears, puts his brother in a headlock, and draws the attention of the media his way. On the edge of the crowd, Isabella quietly points towards a side exit. Otabek seizes Yuri by the sleeve before gets involved and they make a run for it.

Yuri kisses him again in the cab back into the hotel, crawling into his lap with a blithe disregard for Otabek’s blushes.

Otabek kisses him back in the hotel lift, pressing Yuri against the mirrored walls, the reflection of Yuri’s hair making him look like a lion shaking back his mane as Otabek licks his throat (he tastes like salt and sweat and victory). It takes them three attempts to get into Yuri’s room because the keycard keeps sliding out of his fingers and he comes back to Otabek’s mouth instead of picking it up.

He’s never felt like this before, never felt this heady rush of need and affection and desire. He has been watching Yuri for almost half his life and he knows this body that is shifting and shaking beneath his hands, knows the story of every muscle and every scar, knows the blisters on Yuri’s feet when he kicks his shoes across the room, the lines where his costumes have dug into his skin, the rough brush of his chapped lips.

And all that makes it perfect. Knowing this, knowing Yuri, is what makes him burn more brightly with every touch.

Saying yes to Yuri has always made his life brighter and better, so he says it now, says it over and over, yes when Yuri starts to pull their clothes off, clumsy and desperate, yes when Yuri touches him, seducing him with all the need and none of the grace he shows on ice, yes (breathless and gasping) when Yuri thrusts against him, breath sobbing against the side of his head.

Yes, yes, yes.

Later, when Yuri curls drowsily against his side, Otabek wraps an arm round him and pulls him close, savouring the undeniable fact of his presence. Here, at last, is his Yura, where he always should have been.

“What are you smiling about?” Yuri complains, propping himself up on his elbow.

“You,” Otabek says with complete honesty.

Yuri’s face scrunches up, as if he’s not sure what to do with whatever he’s feeling. Then, very slowly, his expression softens and he leans forward to kiss Otabek again. It’s the softest kiss so far, as if Yuri has finally realised that this is them now.

This is them now.

When the kiss breaks apart, Yuri says, quick and gruff, “So, you fucking well know I love you, right?”

“I know,” Otabek says and kisses him again.

It’s not going to be easy. Come morning, they’ll be putting out all the fires they’ve lit with their indiscretion over the last few days. They’re still competing against each other, still living in different countries.

But none of that matters. They will find a way. Here, together, is where they belong.

Because sometimes home is not a place but a person, the one person you come back to time and time again, the one whose gravity pulls you safely back to earth. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music links:
> 
> Otabek's SP: [Dvorak's Slavonic Dance No 5](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wc1_kjRtydE)  
> Yuri's SP: [Fire Suite Finale](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0-OBzD5Es4c)
> 
> Otabek's FS: [Ain't No Cure for Love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UFFlbBpC0G0)  
> Yuri's FS: [Swan Lake (from Headbangers Symphony](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JK9LZQycBBM)

**Author's Note:**

> Anor has cerebral palsy. Her experiences are based on a mixture of my cousin's and one of my student's experiences.


End file.
